


Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity

by hurinhouse



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/pseuds/hurinhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undercover: Like Riding a Bike</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity

"Your son… he's quite the ladies man."

Reese watches Caffrey charm the third woman that night. The man wouldn't have needed the tux, but it just made him all the more ridiculously smooth. "Juvenile delinquent is more accurate."

Miller shrugs. "That's what these years are for, aren't they? How will they learn if they don't make mistakes?"

"He's thirty five. His mistakes could fill a museum." 

"So you don’t make them anymore? Mistakes."

"Miller, you pulled me into this operation. Let's get to business." He needs to move this along. Caffrey had sent a nod his way when he sauntered back downstairs with the second girl. He must have gotten into the safe and he'll still have what he found on him. 

"I'm sorry to have insisted, Mr. Halden. Nick is a delight but I don't deal if I don’t meet the man behind the curtain. Enjoy the party. We'll discuss details after."

~ ~ ~

"No offense, of course, Mr. Halden. I don't want to take any chances during our meet with the seller." 

It isn't offense he possesses at being patted down, but rather concern at what they'll find on Neal. Yet somehow the con was able to hide the evidence when they searched him. Now it's Reese's turn.

"What's this? Little girl jewelry? You said Nick was your only family." Miller spins the cheap metal bracelet he pulled from Reese's pocket round his finger, no longer the jovial host. It's rimmed with sleek little cheetahs. Reese can see Caffrey's eyes widen a split second before plastering on his vintage grin.

"It's mine. I've been dabbling in metalwork, practicing for a job. Dad was taking it to the buyer." 

Reese is mortified he'd left that damned thing in his pocket. What if it'd been his wallet or badge? 

"Right. Maybe my girlfriend will like it." Miller gestures his men toward Caffrey. "Search him again."

And that's where it went downhill. 

 

~ ~ ~

Trusting Caffrey's morality hadn't been the issue. Reese knows he's loyal in a life or death situation. His wild card tendencies getting them killed had been his concern. 

"Hold still." The kid's slipping again.

But Reese is the only agent his age in the New York office who can speak Urdu and Nick Halden had promised his "father" had the connections Miller needed to sneak in his Buddhist artifacts on a regular basis. Peter could possibly pass for Neal's father, but the seller spoke Pakistani, not one of Peter's skills. The ruse worked, until Caffrey's second pat-down, when he got caught with the shipping receipts (where the hell had they been the first time?) and Miller's men had pulled guns. The irony that those wild card tendencies had saved Reese's life was not lost on him.

Now they're locked in a tiny closet in the staff quarters while the man who they'd thought was just an antiquities smuggler stands off against the CIA at the front of the house. Turns out the crates they'd snuck through customs actually contain drugs. 

"Sir-" 

"Shut up, Caffrey."

Neal's harsh breath in his ear makes it difficult to decipher what's going on out there. He has the man shoved up against the wall, his bow tie ground against the leaking hole in Caffrey's chest, handkerchief pressed to its twin at his back. There's no room in the closet for him to lie down. The minutes tick away with the kid's heartbeat.

"It's for an auction." 

"Sir?" 

"My granddaughter's school. The kids raise funds in whatever way they can. The top seller's charity wins the proceeds at the auction next month. McKayla chose the Cheetah Foundation." 

"She made the bracelets to sell. Commendable."

"Not cancer research or food for the poor. Cheetahs."

"Cheetahs are good, Sir. Important even. Kids need… fuzzy things to believe in." Every few words start slowing and Reese can sense how much it costs Neal to stay upright.  
"Think how boring a bracelet for say… diabetes r'search would be. You could do a, a sugar cube charm. Maybe those things they prick their finger with. Oh if you di' key chains for the blind you could- "

"Caffrey, stop talking."

His legs are burning from the squat he's been in so he lowers his knees to the ground. Caffrey's legs are folded up for lack of room. Reese straddles them and rests his forehead on the wall above the man's shoulder.

"You know they'll be back for you any minute, Sir." 

"Save your energy to breathe." 

Neal gasps as Reese pushes into him harder and he can feel the kid’s pulse increase. Caffrey's right. They shot Neal in reaction to the shipping receipts but they'll soon realize that F.B.I. agents make great hostages. They'll be back for him. Peter will have heard everything from Neal's watch but they both know the C.I.A. has taken over the stand-off and they'll be stuck in this building three more hours. Caffrey doesn't have three hours.

"There's a gun, Sir… above the third… no, second ceiling tile. Miller's. I hid it during the party." Ever resourceful. No wonder he made a show of being claustrophobic as Miller told his men to secure them somewhere. Of course Caffrey would be adept at reverse psychology along with everything else.

"Agent Burke has it under control out there, Caffrey."

"Okay. Sure."

~ ~ ~

"Got him… smack in the… back of the hand."

"Ouch."

"Guy's gotta be a, a leftie now. Makes prison just… tha' much harder." He'd read all about the parking garage shootout in Peter's report but he wants to keep Neal talking, weak though it is. Well, whispering. Sitting up to pick the closet lock took everything out of him. Reese checks the gun with two hands while his upper arm holds Caffrey up.

It hadn't taken as long to climb the shelves as he'd expected. Probably a combination of adrenaline and keeping in pretty good shape for sixty four. He hadn't wanted to leave Neal on the floor alone but they're sitting ducks anyway.

"Peter's always been a good shot."

"Peter's good at a lot of things, Sir." 

Reese studies him. Through the pale skin and hooded eyes he can see conviction shine through, a firm belief in Peter that rivals his own. 

"Bailing you out has soared to the top of that list."

"I don’t s'ppose he… gets a comm'dation for that?"

The man's shivering now, too weak to hunch his arms about himself. Sure it's chilly in here, but it's more than likely shock. Neal groans as Reese inches him forward and drapes his own jacket around his shoulders. 

"Was that stolen bullet-proof vest part of Bureau protocol?"

"- ‘aven't gotten that far in the 'cedural handbook yet, Sir. You'd… have to ask P'ter."

Hughes shakes his head, ignoring the pained whimper as he shoves one more time into the kid's chest and stays there. "You're not going to be sent back for not jumping into a suicide mission every chance you get. What _will_ get you sent back are Nazi treasures and stolen flash drives."

"Flsh... Sir?"

"Stay awake, Neal. I need you to be ready when I get back."

He wishes he could hear a "Yes, Sir" as he eases open the closet door.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It's ridiculous to stay here. There's nothing he can do sitting on a plastic chair watching the clock. His back is sore, the coffee is lukewarm and he could be starting in on his report.

"Neal Caffrey?" The unfamiliar voice startles him but he immediately appreciates the cessation of Peter's pacing in the middle of the waiting lounge. Reese joins the rest of Neal's entourage as the surgeon tells them their golden boy will live, though his recovery will be expectedly slow. Caffrey's paranoid accomplice sends a glare Reese's way without actually looking at him, mean feat, until Burke's wife squeezes the man's hand. 

"When can we see him?" Trust Peter to keep things on track. 

The nurse allows a couple of people in at a time. Elizabeth offers to let the Neurotic in with Peter but the man shoos her ahead and waits with Neal's landlady. Reese stands in the hall. He can't hear anything through the glass but he can see Neal's sleeping, can see the fear and relief in Peter's face. Elizabeth brushes Neal's hair from his forehead while Peter fidgets in the chair beside the bed, closing his eyes, head tipped back, before steeling himself back into the moment.

Reese feels compelled to go in, wants to see the kid up close, maybe hear the beeping of all those machines. He glances down the hall to see Berrigan and Jones waiting their turn and a sigh escapes him. Sylvie will have something warmed up for him at home, will want to wash the blood out of his shirt. He asks the junior agents to get into the office early tomorrow for the C.I.A. briefing before he leaves.

~ ~ ~

He recalls the time he'd broken some ribs and contracted a case of pneumonia a couple of decades ago. It'd been a pretty intense investigation from the beginning but no one had expected it to go so badly. He'd spent a few days on bed rest, Sylvie staying by his side most of the time, the kids with her mother. The first day she'd been scared out of her mind. But once she'd known he'd be okay, they'd argued, over nasal cannulas and blankets and diet. Peter is this way. 

Peter adjusts Neal's pillows and scrambles to catch his toppled water and blocks Neal's hand from absently picking at the IV tape. The sports magazine Neal was handed is tossed to the end of the bed and when Neal twists the wrong way Peter is there with a basin until the nausea subsides. Fortunately it's unneeded or Reese may have turned tail right then. 

"Going in, I hope?"

"Elizabeth." The corridor's packed or he'd have heard her coming. Her hands are full of coffees and art magazines, neither of which he suspects the patient will be up for any time soon. "Can I give you a hand?"

"I have it, thanks, Reese." She purses her lips. "You disappeared the other night."

"Paperwork. Besides, Caffrey's fan club already has a president."

They both turn to the window and watch Peter adjust the head of Neal’s bed.

"True. But membership is always open." Elizabeth pushes the door with her hip and precedes him in.

"Look who's up."

"Hey, Hon."

"Eliza-… Sir."

"Hello, Reese."

"Peter. Caffrey, you're looking a lot better than two days ago. I trust you're feeling so, as well?"

"I am."

No more blood soaking his clothes but far from okay. The work release rules give him a week to return or he'll have to spend the rest of his recovery in a prison infirmary. Reese knows how long it takes to bounce back from a gunshot.

"Hon, I have something in the car I need help with."

Burke follows her out. The lie was unnecessary; Reese wasn't staying long. Still, it isn't as if he hasn't had his share of awkward hospital visits with his subordinates. 

"Sir, I'm glad to see you're okay." 

So it takes a death scare to knock the swagger out of him; certainly temporarily, but good to know. He's sure the cocktail running into the kid's arm contributes.

"Am I the one that was shot, Caffrey?"

"I was a bit out of it for a while. Anything could've happened."

Reese nods, takes in the cards and flowers and balloons on the window ledge. There's a particularly revealing bouquet of colored pencils with what looks like various lock-picking tools sparsely arrayed between. The short guy was here. Surprise.

"How did you know I was fluent in Urdu, Caffrey?"

"Must have slipped out during one of those get-to-know-you seminars at the office."

"I don't attend those."

"Huh."

"And the shipping receipts? Where were they the first time?"

"The loss of blood has been playing havoc with my memory, Sir."

"I'm sure. Thank you."

"For what, Sir?"

"You know what, Caffrey." A silence follows, short but significant. 

"That's what you don't pay me for, Sir."

"Caffrey."

"Yeah?"

"Don't do it again."

~ ~ ~

Two conference calls and an interrogation watch had taken up most of his afternoon and Reese is already late. He'll hear about it for days if he misses McKayla's auction. He never seemed to have gotten the evil eye for missing their own kids' activities, but he assumes Sylvie had just wanted him to come home safe back then.

He passes through the bull pen. Burke and Caffrey are gone for the day. Peter was smart to have his C.I. start back in the middle of the week; the man looked ready to drop halfway through the morning. It took a lot of creative paperwork but Reese was able to get him a few weeks off, cold case files delivered to his loft by way of Jones, Berrigan, Burke. No one need know he hadn't the energy to look at any of them.

Reese rolls his shoulders and grabs his jacket from his chair before he sees it. On the floor, leaning against his desk. Rectangular, wrapped in brown postal paper. He looks out at the desks but only the receptionist and the newest junior agent are still here. He rests the package on the desk and carefully pries the tape loose, setting the paper aside. 

A painting; more specifically, a cheetah. Not a pretentious impressionist cat skulking through the jungle but a vibrant abstract cheetah perfectly suited for an elementary school auction. He runs a hand through what hair he has left, remembering his own rule about accepting gifts from subordinates, one on a work release no less. 

5:14. He's not on the metaphorical clock any longer, and if he really needs to justify anything, this gift is for McKayla, not him. 

He rewraps the painting and heads out. He should be able to get to the school before the auction starts.


End file.
